


darling so it goes

by likeoatmeal



Category: Glee
Genre: First Time, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:53:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3623913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeoatmeal/pseuds/likeoatmeal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want you too.” Kurt says, and that’s not what he meant to say, not at all, but it’s true. (S3, The First Time)</p>
            </blockquote>





	darling so it goes

“Give me your hand.” Kurt says, reaches out and takes Blaine’s wrist, brings up the hand holding that single foil packet with anxious fingers. Kurt takes it from him, doesn’t pay attention to where it goes (there’s a box of them in Blaine's desk drawer like there’s a box of them in Kurt’s own room. Kurt wonders sometimes if spontaneity can’t be ruined by responsibility then thinks about the loop-the-loops taking place inside his stomach and decides, no, definitely not). He tangles their fingers together, his face flushed warm, but Kurt smiles regardless, lifts their hands together and holds them against his chest. “Like the song?” Blaine’s voice is edged with a smile and Kurt loves him, star bright burst of affection shining through every part of his body. He knows what he was afraid of once; sex some uncomfortable abstract, messy and so completely vulnerable. Kurt’s felt vulnerable enough without needing to be naked for it. He doesn’t feel vulnerable now, not when Blaine smiles and his eyes are young and trusting and looking at Kurt like he’s the best thing in the whole wide world. “I want you too.” Kurt says, and that’s not what he meant to say, not at all, but it’s true.

 

His heart beats hard beneath Blaine’s hand, but it is safe, he’s never doubted that.  He edges closer and leans into the space between them until it disappears.

 

-

 

In the bar and on his second beer, Blaine presses up against Kurt like he never does outside their respective bedrooms, curls his fingers into the belt loops at Kurt’s waist and tugs him forward playfully. If they were in the choir room Kurt might grin and playfully smack his hands away, shift his body just a fraction away, a multitude of reasons why and none of them meant to hurt. But here Kurt just laughs, his mouth pink and cloyingly sweet with grenadine. Here Kurt twines his arms around Blaine’s shoulders, holds him closer, his smile so wide his eyes crinkle.

 

Some days it still throws him, the truth of it hitting him hard, harder than the buzz of alcohol or the rush of the music, knowing he can make Kurt happy. 

 

-

 

There’s the question Kurt doesn’t ask. He could have asked it, could have played coy or maybe coquettish, and Blaine might have laughed but he would have definitely answered. He always answers Kurt’s questions.

 

He could have asked, fueled in part by natural curiosity (the upward tug of an inquiring eyebrow, ‘Is that so?’) and partly because he’s a teenage boy who’s boyfriend openly admitted to masturbating after acknowledging he harbored desires to strip every last article of clothing off Kurt’s body.

 

Kurt could have asked: “Is that what you think about? When you do that? You think about me?”

 

But he didn’t.

 

Instead he let Blaine turn the music up and pull him to his feet, let Blaine spin him in circles until they were both dizzy and laughing with it. They danced until Kurt couldn’t delay leaving a second longer, and then he drove home with that question still tossing lazily inside his head. He doesn’t succeed in pushing it out of his mind entirely but he makes it through dinner without feeling like his face is going to combust every single time his dad looks at him (Kurt’s come a long way from sticking his fingers in his ears and singing at the top of his lungs but that doesn’t mean his father needs to know Kurt knows his boyfriend touches himself, possibly to the idea of Kurt naked. Or that Kurt’s partaken of a similar past time in the last eight months). 

 

He takes his time getting ready for bed, hangs his sweater and puts his boots away and heads to the shower. The water beats warm against his back and its shameful, how little it takes before he’s half-hard and jittery with slow-burning anticipation.

 

 _‘That’s why they invented masturbation’_ he remembers Blaine saying and how for a split second Kurt thought ‘ _What? Like in front of each other?’_ and how the thought made his blood sear inside his veins.

 

It’s a recurring idea in Kurt’s head (idea and not fantasy, which sounds too racy, rings too much like a flight of fancy when he thinks it to himself in the quiet of his bedroom). Maybe it was one once, when Blaine sitting cross-legged in his bedroom trying to discuss these things was enough to make Kurt’s insides twist with discomfort and guilt, overly aware of the sharp sting of being friends with a boy he still wanted to see him as something more.

 

Back then the thought of Blaine talking frankly about his masturbatory habits, of Blaine possibly inquiring about Kurt’s, might have fueled a fantasy, but now it’s a clear-eyed possibility.  Kurt works his hand in steady strokes beneath the showerhead. A part of him, daring and flirtatious and bold, wishes Blaine had asked him. “Don’t you—?”

 

And, Kurt thinks, working his hand faster, leaning against the cold tile of the shower wall, teeth digging into his bottom lip to keep quiet, he would have answered: Yes.

 

He would have told Blaine how he thinks about Blaine’s hands on his waist and his mouth and his smell and the sound Blaine makes when Kurt purposefully fans his fingers out across his nipple through his shirt. He would have told Blaine about how he does this, in the shower, or his bed, how Kurt closes his eyes and thinks about all the things they do and the things Kurt wants them to do, how sometimes he makes it slow and thinks up everything, how sometimes he’s almost ruthless with want and comes from the memory of Blaine’s body pressing up against his as they say goodbye.

 

He comes with a shivering sigh that he hopes doesn’t echo, slumps against the tiles that have gone warm against his back. The water continues beating against his skin and he thinks, skin still sensitive and loose, that he wants to say it all regardless of being asked.

 

-

 

Blaine closes his eyes, unafraid.

 

The shaking desire to hide, to dig a pit all the way to the center of the earth that’s been tugging behind his navel since he walked out of that parking lot, is quelled by Kurt’s hands, warm and heavy and soft.

 

Kurt has the softest hands of anyone Blaine has ever touched—most definitely the softest he’s ever been touched by—and he’s learning now how much that softness holds true all over Kurt’s body, in the hollow behind his knee and the curving birdcage of his ribs.

 

Kurt’s fingers curl into his sides, stroke up and run down and Blaine forces his eyes open, wants to see and remember and have this in every way. Kurt rests his head against his chest, presses his ear close and closes his eyes, and Blaine wants to laugh; his heart’s beating so loudly in his chest.

 

He doesn’t though, the sound of it dies in his throat as he moves his hands, lays them against Kurt’s back—to hold him close, to reacquaint himself with the angled edge of Kurt’s shoulder blades, and the ascending rungs of his spine. Blaine shivers at Kurt’s shuttering breath when he moves his fingers up the straight line of Kurt’s back like a violin string.  

 

Kurt looks up and allows Blaine’s hands to guide him, allows him to take his mouth, messy, uncoordinated, and honest. Kurt’s hips push forward, and the motion pushes the air out of Blaine’s lungs, leaves him breathless and burning with white-sharp want. Want want want, he wants so much, his insides drowning on the pitch-black ocean floor of greed that ought to scare him, but it’s impossible to be afraid when Kurt’s there.

 

Blaine wants and Kurt gives, god, Kurt gives him everything. That’s just what Kurt does. He shares recipes and facial scrubs and music and smiles. Kurt shares himself with Blaine and, just as importantly, asks Blaine to share himself too, and its insane, how lonely Blaine never knew he was until he didn’t have to be anymore.

 

Kurt gasps against his mouth and they aren’t really kissing anymore, mouths open against each other, just trying to draw in enough air to keep going. Blaine closes one hand on the nape of Kurt’s neck, wraps his arm around Kurt’s back so that Kurt’s chest is pressed against his own. It throws off Kurt’s leverage momentarily, but Blaine’s mouth is running away from him (“Like this—Kurt—Kurt”) and Kurt manages another kiss, settles his weight more firmly atop Blaine with a desperate sound. Kurt rolls his hips close like he can make the space between them disappear forever, and he wants this as badly as Blaine does, wants everything Blaine has to offer him—

 

This is love. Blaine thinks, disbelieving and overwhelmed. This is how they love one another, how they’ve loved each other since long before now and how they’ll love each other after.

 

It still surprises him sometimes, how much it can feel like bravery.

 

-

 

Burt and Carole are out and Kurt hasn’t heard a single noise from Finn’s room, which isn’t unusual for a Saturday. There’s half a loaf of sourdough in the bread box and eggs he’s been meaning to use up before they expire, and a soft-soled silence between them, careful not to draw attention. Kurt lets Blaine fiddle with his ipod while he pulls out everything they’ll need for French toast. Today, Blaine’s socks are Granny Smith green, embellished with yellow and red polka dots and Kurt remembers his bare feet on the eggshell colored tiles of the Anderson’s kitchen the other night while they made grilled cheese sandwiches.

 

There’s a nervous twist in Kurt’s stomach, suddenly overly aware of the fact that he’s naked underneath his clothes (there’s a dark red bruised on his right hip, and Kurt feels his face flush dark enough to match at the memory of Blaine’s mouth sucking it into place). When he turns back to the counter Blaine’s arranged all the spice bottles into a single row, Madeline Peyroux promises to love him when he’s gone in the background. He wonders if Blaine expects them to go upstairs today. Make the most of the possibly-empty house.

 

“I feel like I should have brought you flowers.” Blaine blurts out and Kurt’s eyebrows fly up, imagining what it would be like to get flowers every single time they do this. He imagines the house crowded with vases. Kurt laughs, heat rising in his face—would Dad know? Carole might figure it out—and Blaine’s face is reminiscent of a grapefruit, but he grins sheepishly in response. “Too much?”

 

Kurt pinches his thumb and pointer finger together, easy with knowing they’re both trying to find their footing again, “Just a bit. Though—you know I believe in a good floral arrangement for any occasion. Big or small.” Blaine’s grin shifts, transforms into a smile.

 

“How about you prep the eggs?” Kurt asks, getting back to the task at hand, “I promise to be equally flattered.”

 

“I’d be honored.”

 

-

 

“I don’t want you to go.” Blaine says, eyes closed, arms tight around Kurt’s shoulders, body heavy with reluctance. He’s probably sounds desperate or needy or clingy, but he doesn’t care. The house is quiet and huge and so very empty—his parents won’t be home until later, so much later, it would be easy to have Kurt stay—and the thought of being left alone, being left without Kurt makes his chest ache. Kurt kisses his cheek, his temple, the corner of his eye and the side of his nose, anywhere his lips can reach. “I wish—” Kurt rubs his cheek against Blaine’s, and Blaine presses closer, chests and hips and legs until they’re leaning fully against one another, and Blaine doesn’t know how he’s supposed to ever let Kurt go again. It was hard enough before this.

 

“I really love you. I do, I do, so much.” Kurt’s almost incoherent, mouth still pressed close to Blaine’s skin and Blaine’s eyes sting. He thinks someone should have warned him how much of being in love is feeling like there is not enough (air, space, time, time, time) of anything. “I love you too.” (no not nearly enough.)   

 

Kurt hums, but he doesn’t say anything else, hands warm and stead on Blaine’s back. Blaine kisses Kurt’s shoulder, pulls back and tilts his face up, slots their mouths together, hard and earnest, shivering when Kurt’s hands move up to his face, holding him closer. “Text me when you get home.” He says, hands coming to rest on Kurt’s waist, fingers looping through his belt loops and giving a playful tug.

 

Kurt grins, fingers ghosting over Blaine’s unruly hair, “Of course. Have breakfast with me tomorrow?”

 

Blaine smiles back, stupid with love and warmth. It would be easy, dangerously easy, to lose himself in the idea of tomorrow, a hundred tomorrows from now, to the possible some day when Kurt won’t have to go anywhere at all, when they’ll share a bed and a home and life, all the pieces so closely intermingled they can’t be pulled apart without being ruined.

 

But that tomorrow seems too far away to feel real in comparison to tonight.

 

“Okay.”

 

 Kurt smiles, a familiar soft smile, and he covers one of Blaine’s hands, turns his head just enough to press a kiss against Blaine’s skittering pulse.

 

-

 

“You have the softest skin in the whole world.” Blaine mumbles, voice sleepy and sated, fingertips tracing nonsensical patterns across the width of Kurt’s ribs. And Kurt, Kurt lies there, immobile, because it feels like every part of him has been melted down into something molten and viscous, and all that’s left for him is to seep into Blaine’s bed and Blaine’s skin and Blaine’s bones. Kurt doesn’t mind the thought of that at all. 

 

Kurt’s too heavy limbed to shoo away Blaine’s fingers when they stray too close to a ticklish spot, draws his breath in tight and somehow manages to squirm, the motion abrupt beneath his own skin, so much so it surprises him. He’s solidifying too quickly.

 

Blaine makes an apologetic sound, stills his fingers but doesn’t draw them away, still just there, just touching. Kurt’s eyes slide open to the muted light of Blaine’s desk lamp, tilts his head and glances at Blaine, leaning up on an elbow and watching Kurt’s face, with dark, happy eyes, his hair coming down on his forehead where it rebels into wispy, soft curls.

 

 “Sorry,” Blaine says, ghosts over Kurt’s ribs until his palm is resting, warm and wide over Kurt’s sternum. “You—you’re really soft.” Blaine says moving in closer; his chest pressed against Kurt’s side and Kurt’s heart speeds rabbit-fast inside his body, so very, very aware of his nakedness, of Blaine’s. He thinks his face might glow if it blushed any harder, but his mouth blossoms open into a smile. Blaine’s cheek smashed against his collarbone while his thumb flicks back and forth, Kurt Hummel is embarrassed and _aroused_ and so very much in love he could make himself sick with it, but for now he just smiles at the ceiling and hurries his molecules enough to wrap his arm around Blaine’s back and curve his hand around his shoulder. 

 

“I like yours too.” He keeps his voice low to preserve the quiet—which is like its own kind of song, the hush before the first note and the breathless second after the last, only the syncopated beating of their hearts keeping time—and Blaine drops a kiss to his chest and his collarbone and his chin, like of course it’s too much for Blaine to keep still, even now (Kurt remembers the roll of Blaine’s hips against his, the way his arm shifted in Kurt’s grip and his own hand curling over Kurt’s to hold them both together and goes hot all over).  

 

“You’re my favorite.” Blaine sighs, mouth against Kurt’s jaw, words slow and sleepy. Something prickles behind Kurt’s eyes and everything shivers inside, like his brain is shaking itself awake. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he can speak.

 

“Thank you.” Kurt’s voice sticks a little in his throat and his hand tightens on Blaine’s shoulder, pulls Blaine higher until they’re face to face. There’s something rising in his throat, something hot and knotted tight, and he touches Blaine’s face because its there, because he’s beautiful, because Kurt has never loved anyone the way he loves Blaine. It scares him, the hold Blaine has over him, almost as much as it frightens him to think of the hold he has over Blaine. It’s not the kind of power he ever thought he’d have, heavier and awkwardly shaped in hand. “I’m glad I’m with you.” Kurt says, and Blaine’s eyelashes flutter, his eyes bright and wet. “Me too.”  He kisses Kurt’s mouth, sweet. Blaine says his name; voice a whisper between kisses and all Kurt hears is _love, love, love_.

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Talk about throw back Thursday! This has been sitting on my hard drive since this episode, the First Time, aired. The finale last week brought back a lot of feelings y'all. Thought I might dust this off (resisted every urge to drop some heavy handed foreshadowing all up in it). 
> 
> This might happen again from time to time. Believe me there's a lot to choose from. 
> 
> Title from Can't Help Falling In Love With You.


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